


Requiem for a fool

by rip1009



Series: Requiem for a fool. His Dark Chronicles. [1]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 14:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rip1009/pseuds/rip1009
Summary: When his favorite fledgling dies, Nicolas mourns his loss and vows revenge. An old friend comes to offer solace.(yes, I totally ignore Anne killed Nicolas and Santino and since I wanted these two, well three characters to interact for ages, I decided to finally write something. It might become a series. Stick around)





	Requiem for a fool

**Author's Note:**

> // I know these parings might be odd and unheard of inside the fandom but I had them in my mind for years and finally decided to write a fic about them.  
> Also, I know Louis didn't killed the Théâtre des Vampires group around Christmas Eve but for my artistic purpose I set the date of their destruction on Christmas Eve.
> 
> Enjoy this small offering, comments are very welcomed and cherished.//

> _**"Atque in pepetuum, frater, ave atque vale"** _

 

Deep inside his mind, Nicolas thought he wouldn't care so much. He had been just a fedgling, one of the many he vowed to create just to annoy his jailer, the precious, precocious child with a grudge against his maker. Nicolas liked sometimes to lie to himself and end up believing that lie. It made matters easier and his mind was relieved of the never-ending circle of second guessing, hate and misery. He might be mad but he had survived and his survival meant that one day he would go to his Golden Prince, look him in those grey, icy blue eyes of his and say everything he wanted. He would tell him about felling abandoned, betrayed, left in the dark, left in the greedy arms of a cult of miserable wretches who took the last shreds of innocence he had left. He knew abuse. From his childhood to his teen years, to the abuse he endured once he became a vampire. The psychotic auburn hair child spoke and spoke of madness, of being cleansed by fire. The mad child suffered from his own madness. In fact all of them were subjected to the abyss of loosing hope and threading close to the precipice.

Nicolas had come back to Paris although he tried to avoid the city as much as possible. Too many memories. Each _ruelle_ brought back a memory. A memory of a young man who still hoped, who kept his guard as high as possible, who was bitter and avoided to take part in the joyfulness but wished to feel the sting of merriment. He had left his devious fledgling in this city. A child who matched his madness. His soul filled with bitterness and hate but struggling each night to hide the madness. Nicolas had hoped he taught him well. It wasn't an easy feat to present himself in front of Armand and be accepted as one of Paris Coven members. A Coven who was a pale shadow of what he had heard from the tales of old troubled souls he had had the fortune to meet.

If life wanted to mock him, the sight of Lestat in Paris had been like a slap across his face. Nicolas was familiar with the pain of flames and the aching wait to let the flesh heal. Even with the help of ancient blood, the immortal body struggled to mend the charred skin and muscles. His sanity returned the moment he had jumped, arms wide stretched, welcoming the flames like and old friend. The dance, the songs, the frenzy which had engulfed each member of the Coven had given him the chance to crawl in the forest. He might have sensed Eleni circling his thoughts and Armand's voice but he wanted to be left alone. To suffer, to atone, to be delivered from the demons his mind had spawned and who refused to give him release. So he endured, he wanted to scream but his lips were closed, the fire having melted the skin. Each move he made was pure agony. No words could describe his torment. The music, his personal and favorite demon of choice gave a voice to his pain. He would have never guessed another immortal was wondering the woods. An ancient soul drawn to the Sabbath of the old days, curious of the gathering, of the event...

Lost again in his own memories, Nicolas shook himself back to face the ruins of the theater he once called his home. Burned and destroyed. He couldn't believe the emotions bubbling inside him. Was it love? Was it rage? Was it the desire to avenge his fallen child? Nicolas avoided the rush of emotions. He hadn't been schooled like any dark child, he taught himself over the decades and chose what suited his nature. He was impossible even as a vampire and avoided other of his kind mostly because of his destructive nature. 

He stood in front of the door, before making his way inside the remains of the main hall. Dark marble, wood chairs, the stage. Everything was a pile of ash and debris. His mind was again filled by the laughs and echoes of the plays. They kept on playing his works. His dark child had been Death, had taken his favorite parts and his child had been a wonder to look at. To listen. To bask in the mocking laugh and wicked words he put together. His perfect, dark child had been his refuge, his peace in madness. His child was no more because of a wretched, weak vampire.

Nicolas wasn't surprised Lestat kept making fledglings. The little marquis was true to his own demons and refused to be alone. He hadn't been able to let go of his family, why was he surprised he spawned vigorously a litter of weak fledglings. What hurt him and for the love of Satan, Nicolas wasn't able to understand why after all these years it still hurt was the sight of Louis. The green, soulful eyes, the dark mane, the elegant gesture. A creature from the New World chosen because he Lestat saw him a twisted twin of Nicolas. That hurt. The truth. The lie. The fact Lestat hadn't been able to give up and move on. Nicolas told himself he had moved own. That he had let go of the love he felt. His mind caught sense of a voice telling him to hide his thoughts. The shunned at the admonition. Still a weakling. " _Caro_ , this is not the time nor the place to avenge Santiago. They are still close and you, you don't have a plan, yet." 

"I don't need your sympathy or your council", Nicolas spoke loud this time, his fingers brushing the burned wood, his feet taking him to the crypt. The curse of his kind was the maker and child were unable to hear their thoughts. He wondered if Santiago had asked for his help, if he screamed in agony for his maker to come and save him. 

"Stop tormenting yourself, it's done", the melodic Italian voice sneaked its way inside his head. He let it this time to keep him company. 

The coffins, intricate in their decorations were a pile or humid, burned wood. Pieces of clothes, blood, the putrid smell of rotten, charred flesh filled his nostrils. A scythe of the dusty marble floor and his feet gave in. He was kneeling, surveying the destruction. A body. A familiar body laid cut in front of him. His child, his beautiful child had been slain and left for the grotesque way their kind could mend their flesh. He knew the rules even if he liked to hurl back the various way he would broke them. He knew he should burn this corpse, all of them. Leaving them like this was condemning them to an existence of misery and even demons deserved better. Lestat's damned child had ignored even the most simple of rules.

"He didn't know our ways. He still doesn't know our customs..."

"The curse of being a spawn of Lestat. Like a stray cat, he leaves his litter to their own devices. What can an ignorant teach his own?", words weren't coming as bitter and biting as he wanted to. He realized he was cradling in his lap the head of his precious Santiago. In that moment he wanted to be bleed of emotions. He wanted to be sparred the pain and the agony of watching his own creation mutilated. Had Louis know the poet Santiago had been? He had seen the sneer and madness. A creature bled from the same madness as his maker. His kin, his soul, his Santiago. Ruby tears smeared his face. He hadn't cried in ages and now, as he cradled the corpse of his beloved, he wept. 

Silent steps crept closer to him and the feel of a delicate yet strong hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. The figure knelled close to him, taking sight of the fallen glory that had been  _Théâtre des Vampires,_ of the wonder who had been his Santiago.

"You will have plenty of time to avenge him but now we must put them to rest and honor their remains", it wasn't a suggestion. It was common sense among their kind.

They moved in silence and efficiently. A new pyre was built and the corpses were gathered and laid on the wood. Mangled and torn to pieces, the act of a mad man resonated to another mad man as he laid his fledgling and let the fire consume his flesh. Flesh of his own flesh, blood of his own dark blood.

They stood and watched. Nicolas had accepted Santino's company long ago, he had accepted the lectures, like a weak child listening to his strong maker for he had not had a maker. He found peace and understanding under the guidance of the former Italian Coven Master, a teacher, a companion, a friend, a lover. Someone who taught him and didn't leave him to the unknown, unaware of their kind rules. Rules of obedience, rules of survival. When he had noticed Santiago during his journey to Madrid, Santino encouraged him to follow the young mad and decide if he could be suited as his fledgling. Santiago had been his first. For his bravado of creating legions of vampires, Nicolas never acted on the impulse. When the first drops of Santiago's blood had washed his mouth, he felt a connection he didn't understand at first. It became stronger as he felt that wicked, sensual mouth draw his blood. He laughed and cried at the same time. A perfect, dark creation to match his own soul. Those glorious years of teaching Santiago, of finding the poet matching his music, the frenzy he brought to his body, the passion he felt when they made love. This wicked love. This useless emotion. Santiago had told him Lestat was back in Paris. He never lied to his child and told him the truth about his maker. Lestat was injured, almost killed by his children. He deserved it. The fool had dared to give the Dark Gift to a small girl. The idiot couldn't have thought that the brat would rise against his maker? The brat would want justice over being condemned to the body of a useless child for all eternity. Lestat never thought things through, he only acted on impulse. 

In the distance, Nicolas could hear the bells and prayers spoken in the church close by. It was Christmas Eve and snow was starting to fall over Paris. 

"He is with Armand now. They might leave this town quicker than I anticipated. Restrain your first impulse and avenge Santiago properly, if this is still your wish", Santino always spoke like a teacher, giving him the dark lessons he knew were right.

Slowly rising from the floor, they picked up the ashes of the fallen actors and scattered them to the wind, the ashes mingling with the snow.

"Ave atque vale, mon _frère",_ the words made their way through his lips as the last remains of his Santiago were scattered to the wind.


End file.
